Bittersweet

         “Sugar, my dear?”
         The girl was surrounded by darkness, blurs of dull colors slowly becoming visible. She felt both nauseous and disoriented to an amplitude of which she had never experienced before. She couldn’t feel her couldn’t feel her limbs, let alone move them. The only coherent detail of her surroundings was the voice which spoke to her. It was calm and reassuring, soothing in spite of her incoherency.
         “I should hope that two spoons is enough,” the voice continued, “anymore would make it far too sweet.” Vision was slowly returning to her eyes. Although the numbness lingered, she could tell she was seated at a table. Across the table she could make out a human figure. She figured that he must be source of the soothing voice, of which she couldn’t quite assign a gender. She noticed the figure rise and walk around the table until he disappeared from sight. A smooth hand caressed her chin from behind, delicately forcing her lips to part. She felt the rim of a cup being pressed to her mouth.
         “That’s it, my dear, just swallow it down.” The warm liquid slid down the back of her throat, leaving a comforting sensation. The figure returned to it’s place at the table, whom the girl could now identify as a man. Her vision had returned enough that, although blurry, she was quite certain she could make out a smile on his face.
         Suddenly, a spike of nausea gripped the girl. The back of her throat began to sting in unimaginable concentrations, as though she had swallowed a swarm of infuriated hornets. Unable to restrain herself, she started convulsing in her seat. As she tried to grasp her neck, she realized that something was holding her back. Glancing down, she was met a horrific epiphany in that her hands were crudely bound to the wooden armrests upon which they lay. In an instant she was cold, chilled from both fear and sickness. Shaking uncontrollably, the girl found that she was bound far too tightly to have any hope of breaking free.
         “Too bitter? My apologies,” the man told her, “I’ll put more sugar in the next cup.” The stinging sensation receded slightly and, thinking with the slightest bit more clarity, the girl took in her surroundings. She was tightly bound to the chair; that much was evident. Laid out on the table in front of her was a collection of teacups, some empty and some full. She watched the man produce a large jar from underneath the table, unscrew the lid, and scoop up some of it’s contents with a spoon. She could make out a label on the side of the jar, and she squinted to read what it said. Further inspection revealed two separate labels on the jar. The first was scribbled on with an industrial marker and appeared to read ‘sugar’. The second, however, was written in much smaller print. The girl could make out plenty of icons beneath it, their yellow and black colorings easily standing against the dull grey of the container.
         “I’ve added four this time, I hope that will do alright.” The man frowned when the girl started to convulse again. “That isn’t very polite, my dear,” the man said, “I should that a fifth spoonful may be in order.” Again his hand descended into the jar, dropping another scoop of the powder into the mug. As he began to stir, the girl noticed something she hadn’t before; anytime she breathed in, she could feel a mild sting in her nostrils. The room itself had an overwhelming stench of what she could only relate to burning bleach. Now curious of her situation, and far more sensible than before, she looked again at the man. He was wearing a surgical mask, the gleaming white of which she must have mistaken earlier for a smile. The met eyes for a moment, and the man let out a quiet chuckle as he rose. The girl began to struggle in her bindings again, desperate to shuffle away from the man. Her efforts were futile, however, as the chair was bolted to the concrete floor.
         “Open wide, my dear,” said the approaching man, “wouldn’t be much of a tea party if we didn’t drink all the tea!” She tried to scream, but the sharp pain of the liquid she had swallowed earlier had mangled her through to a state of muteness. Tears rolled down her cheeks as the man’s firm grip snaked it’s way around her chin yet again. A sharp squeeze of his fingers induced gagging, but as the ‘tea’ was poured down her throat, she could only do so much to resist. The stinging returned again, much more potent than before. She began to spit up blood and other unrecognizable fluids, creating an organic palette on the table in front of her. The man was back in his seat now and, noticing the girls terrified eyes, turned the jar to show her a larger label on the opposite side. The label read ‘Sulfuric Powder', but she was unable to see this as her eyes rolled back into her head.
         As the man sat adjacent the girl, who was writhing in unbearable pain and minutes away from death through sulfur poisoning, the man remarked to himself; “I need to have these little tea parties more often!”